Three
by BlueVase
Summary: When Patrick gives Shelagh a rather obvious love-bite, he tries to find a way to justify him leaving his mark on her, and does so by explaining what this mark means, along with all her scars.


**This fic was inspired by two other fics, namely the second part of thisunrulyheart's** _ **Intoxicating**_ __ **and** _ **Patrick makes his mark**_ **by my-little-yellowbird. Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.**

She touched the red mark with her fingertips, small worry lines appearing between her eyebrows.

Patrick came up behind her and snaked his arms around her, pressing a kiss on her temple. "Hello," he whispered. He always found his wife attractive, but now, with tousled hair and the pretty flush that always came after their lovemaking painting her cheeks, she was simply radiant. The fact that she only wore her underwear and slip didn't hurt, either.

Shelagh tapped the red circle on her throat, worry lines deepening. "What will people think?" she asked.

"It's just a love-bite, dear," he said.

"And it will be visible for days. I'll have to wear a scarf."

"Don't. Let everyone know that I can't stop touching you," he smirked, pulling her close. He kissed the little bruise, sucking the skin into his mouth, then soothing it with his tongue.

"Patrick!" she chastised him softly, slapping his arm and stepping away from him to check on Teddy. The baby was still sleeping soundly, chest falling and rising in a steady rhythm. Shelagh reached for his little hand almost unconsciously, then let her hand fall back to her side.

"I'll have to wear something with a high collar," she decided.

"Wear it like a badge of honour. The people we love inadvertently mark us, and this is simply my stamp," Patrick said.

"Is it? And do people mark us?"

"Let me show you," he said. He took her hand, and led her to bed.

"Lie down," he said, smoothing the pillow with one hand whilst he stroked her cheek with the other.

"If you think we're in for another bout of love-making…" she started.

"I wouldn't dream of it, dearest. I know we don't have the time," Patrick grinned, and flopped down beside her, taking her left hand. He rubbed the space between her knuckles, then turned her palm up so he could kiss the warm skin.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. He smiled against her skin, then lowered her hand again.

"This," he said, stroking the silver line that crossed the folds of her palm, "is Timothy's mark."

"Because I got it in the three-legged race?"

"In which you took part out of love for him."

"Isn't it your mark, too?" she asked, trapping his fingers underneath her thumb and stroking the back of his hand.

He remembered how he had cradled her hand, still wet from the tap, droplets of water glistening like pearls cupped in her palm. He had brought it to his mouth and kissed the split skin, as if a kiss could make it all better; her grazed palm, his longing for a woman he could not have.

"I don't share," Patrick said.

She knit her eyebrows again. "But if this isn't your mark, then…"

"Patience, my love," he grinned, and laid her hand down on the rumpled sheets.

He fingered the hem of her slip, then pushed it up. Shelagh lifted her hips so he could pull the fabric all the way to her midriff. He touched the line of skin just above her knickers, causing her to squirm and gasp.

"That tickles," she said.

"But you like that, don't you?" he noted, smiling at her, and stroked her again.

She giggled, then clasped a hand in front of her mouth as Teddy mewled. They both stilled, but the baby just sighed deeply, then sank back into the warm arms of sleep.

"He'll come awake soon. I need to feed him," Shelagh murmured.

"In which case I'll have to finish my explanation soon," Patrick decided. He propped himself up on his elbows and touched the scar from her infertility surgery. It was a pink line, and had stretched beyond its original length thanks to her pregnancy.

"This," he said, tapping it with his fingertips, "is Angela's mark."

"Because we wouldn't have adopted her without that infertility diagnosis," Shelagh said.

"Yes."

It had been an angry wound, red and puckered, causing her to gasp at first whenever she stood or bent down at first. He couldn't hold her close to him those first few nights, not with every sudden movement causing her to curl up and whimper in pain. It had been tender for weeks afterwards.

She smiled at him, trapping his hand between the warm skin of her belly and her own hand. "It doesn't hurt anymore," she whispered.

He cupped her face and kissed her till she gently pushed him away. "Teddy," she said.

"Now, baby Edward's mark is here," he said, and caressed the stretchmarks that littered her belly like twigs.

He had never quite given up hope for their own baby, but he hadn't dared to hope too much, afraid that it would somehow not come true if he poured too much energy into it, too much time, too much love. But it had happened, and even though he had been so afraid she would lose the baby, there had always been a part of him that believed that this part of their story would have a happy ending, like the previous parts had.

He kissed the soft skin of her belly, which had been taut and stretched like a drum a few months before. It would never be as tight as it had been prior to her pregnancy, but he didn't mind. His own belly had become softer in the past few years, and he secretly loved that they were a bit more alike now.

Patrick rested his chin on her stomach and looked at her.

She pressed her scarred palm against his face, letting her fingers fan out against his cheek, allowing her warmth to seep into his skin. "And your mark?" she whispered.

"That, dearest, is precisely the point: you don't have one that is mine."

She touched the love-bite he had given her, stroking the tender skin. "Well, you've rectified that for the moment."

"I'd like to rectify it every day," he said, doing his best not to smirk.

"That I know."

He reached for her, but she ducked underneath his arms and stood.

"Time to feed Teddy," she decided, and patted his head in passing.

He sighed, and flopped down back on the bed. Of course he knew there was no time, but a man could hope…

She didn't wear a scarf that day, and whenever he caught her eyes, she gave him a saucy wink, in which he could read one thing clearly: she would find a way to mark him as hers, too, and she might do it before the day was out.

He hoped she would.


End file.
